


Spoons In

by Shampain



Category: Good Omens (TV), Knives Out (2019)
Genre: Gen, I hope you like good vibes and bonding, M/M, Moving On, New England, Vacation, food is the secret to enduring friendship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:20:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23061592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shampain/pseuds/Shampain
Summary: When Aziraphale suggests a winter vacation, Crowley hopes for Fiji; instead they end up in New England, noshing on the local fare and driving on the wrong (right) side of the road. While making a stop in a town famous for having harboured one of the most famous mystery writers in the past century, they meet another odd couple taking respite from the snow.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Benoit Blanc & Marta Cabrera
Comments: 4
Kudos: 33





	Spoons In

**Author's Note:**

> My friend [notanescalator](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notanescalator/works) suggested some Knives Out and Good Omens crossover fic; namely, our favourite husbands going on vacation and running into Marta and Benoit. So this is all thanks to her, ok!  
> I've been having trouble with my current WIPs and writing in general but I couldn't resist sinking my teeth into the Knives Out universe. Also I love Marta and Benoit perhaps a _smidge_ too much.

Crowley had not been to the area now known as the United States and Canada for a long time, certainly not before it was colonized. And he had no intention in going anytime soon, but Aziraphale insisted they try something new. At first Crowley had been enthused, thinking perhaps of Australia or Fiji or some equally interesting place that would have been insufferable to get to in the fifteenth century, and thus he had never bothered to go.

“Oh, well, there is a place I've been _dreadfully_ wanting to visit, but could never spare the expense or excuse the trip with Upstairs.”

“Where is it?”

“Oh, you know,” Aziraphale hmmed. “America.”

There was only one place Crowley would have any desire to visit were he to go to the United States. The only place where he felt his brand of sin, curiosity, and general tomfoolery would be at peace: Disneyland. And Aziraphale was definitely _not_ going to suggest going there.

“Where?” he'd dared to ask, finally, knowing the angel would read it correctly: wherever Aziraphale wanted to go, Crowley would go too.

The angel just _beamed_.

Five weeks and one long flight later, there they were. New England.

“I think I'm getting a knack for it,” Crowley said of his driving. It was their third day there, and he had finally managed to properly execute a left-hand turn. He blamed the car, some rental with no personality. And also the snow, which had begun to come down late that morning.

As old as he was, Crowley still didn't understand snow the way humans in other parts of the world understood it, having spent far too much time in hot or mild climates. _Especially_ not in terms of driving. Ever since he got the Bentley, Crowley didn't bother driving it in wintry conditions. He just spent those months inside, sleeping or drunk.

“Yes, very good,” Aziraphale said, encouragingly. He had a guidebook in hand and spent much of their drive with his nose in it, but he looked up just then to give him a small smile. “And we haven't got lost once.”

“Can't get lost with you bossing me about.”

“Oh, tch.”

It was an enjoyable time so far, Crowley would admit. The scenery was completely different than what he was used to: the winter created beautiful, stark skies, and trees were dark and prickly against the backdrop of snow. Spooky, a bit. He liked it, even if he had to drive on the wrong side of the road.

“D'you think maybe we should stop and wait it out?” he asked. Crowley had seen snowfall like this before, but it was always a surprise to remember it didn't whirl about gently the way it did in a holiday movie. It came down fast, despite being so white and fluffy; and though the snowflakes danced by as he drove or melted on the heated windshield, it was beginning to pile up on the road.

Aziraphale lowered the book, pressing his lips together. “Maybe so,” he agreed.

“Let's get to that lunch place and we can take stock then. How close are we?”

“Should be another ten minutes, dear.”

Crowley nodded. Doable. “Don't worry, angel,” he said, putting on a heroic tone. “I'll get us there. I'll beat the storm, and we'll get you what you need.” Aziraphale smothered a tiny laugh.

You could get a lot of different cuisines in London, which was why Aziraphale was so pleased to live there most of the time. He was no stranger, though, to going somewhere to get something he _especially_ wanted – that experience in the Bastille came swiftly to mind – and if there was one thing that wasn't readily available in London, it was the creamy, rich, downright sinful food of New England.

Aziraphale had already enjoyed several servings clam and corn chowders, lobster, and rhubarb pie on the trip; Crowley had drunk his weight many times over in craft beer and was prepared for more. The restaurant Aziraphale had picked out to stop for lunch was famous, he said, for its baked beans and sausage, as well as something called a 'Boston cream pie cupcake'.

They pulled into the lot and parked about thirty minutes later than they'd intended to arrive, owing to the snow covering a rather important signpost half a mile back. There were only a handful of other cars there; adjusting for staff, Crowley figured most of the local residents had decided to stay at home.

Despite the uninspired pine green siding exterior, the inside of the restaurant was classy in an understated way, with a vibe very different than English pubs. It had a crackling fire, warm wood furnishings, and a sense that there was wilderness outside and safety within.

“Oh, it really is lovely here, isn't it?” Aziraphale remarked, with the sort of gentle, pleased smile that came whenever things were exactly as he felt they ought to be. He stopped, turning Crowley slightly to brush snowflakes from his back and shoulders. “There we go.”

Here, Aziraphale was in his element, and even if Crowley might have preferred a vacation somewhere more exciting – or at least more hedonistic – he couldn't deny that he was enjoying himself and, also, the fact that Aziraphale was too. And when Aziraphale was happy, and Crowley looked at him too long (as he was wont to do, appearing perhaps rather catatonic), the outside world began to blur, and a strange blooming feeling enveloped in his chest.

Ooph. He really was _whipped_ , as the term was these days.

“It is,” Crowley admitted, trying not to smile. “You've got snowflakes in your hair, angel.”

“Would you like a seat by the fire?” their waitress asked, flashing her dimples at them as she approached.

“Oh, yes please,” Aziraphale said.

She got them seated with menus, and recommended a hot cider to warm up, which Aziraphale agreed to readily. Though Crowley and Aziraphale didn't really get _cold_ , they had taken advantage of the weather to pile on sort of clothes they liked to wear. Crowley was fond of long, long scarves, and slim-fitting overcoats with a dramatic twirl at the edge. Aziraphale looked a bit like a puffed up dove from all the elegant neutrals he wrapped himself in. They took a moment to unwind themselves from their clothes, hanging them up at the nearest coat stand. There were only a few other diners, giving them a strong sense of privacy and solitude.

Settled in, Crowley took a glance out of the windows – the snow looked to be getting heavier – while Aziraphale went over the menu intently. They had started to fall into a pattern where Aziraphale just ordered for him, and Crowley was quite alright with that. “How do you feel about a lobster roll?” he asked, a little fold between his brows. Crowley's mouth twitched into a smile.

“Sounds great.”

By the time they were halfway through their entrees, the other diners had left and they were the only ones in the restaurant when the door opened and another couple came in, shaking snow off. “I am going to die out here in the snow, and no one will ever find me,” a man said in a thick drawl, from behind a chevron-patterned knit scar wound almost up to his mouth.

“I will find you and give you a respectable burial,” his companion said.

The waitress approached them, menus under her arm, smiling. “Marta, hi,” she said. “Good to see you. Usual booth?”

“Please, thanks.”

“Right this way, then.”

“You, my dear, need to go on a _vacation_ ,” the man said as they traipsed past Aziraphale and Crowley's table. “Look at you up here, buried in all this snow. You need to go somewhere _hot_.”

“Oh, maybe I'll go visit you, then,” the girl, Marta, teased, as he helped her take off her coat. “Get up in your business the way you like to get up in mine. I make a pretty good detective, you know.”

“Oh,” he said. “You and I _both_ know that I know that.”

She laughed. “You make everything sound so complicated.”

“I suppose I do. What should we get?”

“I have been craving onion rings for three days.”

Being a demon and an angel, he and Aziraphale were very accomplished people watchers. From the angle of their table and the booth, Crowley could only see Marta's face clearly. It was almost _too_ expressive, with large eyes and a soft mouth, hair messy from where it had been stuffed underneath a knitted hat. Her companion was more difficult to get a good look at, but he was clearly older than her by at least a decade, maybe more, and he spoke with the deep, melodic tones of a man who was used to being listened to.

“Yes, and a whisky for him too, please?” she said as the waitress returned to pour water.

Her friend made a sound of protest. “Only if you have one with me.”

“I'm the one driving!”

“A small one then.”

“You old men are so impossible,” she sighed. “So demanding.”

“How _dare_ you call me old, Marta. Take that back.”

Her eyes dancing with mischief, she said, “Enh, it means you are wise, Ben. Very wise.”

“And if you weren't the sweetest person I've ever met, I'd continue to take offence,” he sniffed.

Crowley was starting to smile to himself, despite himself; but when he glanced at Aziraphale he was surprised to see the angel looking at the couple rather more intensely than he thought was warranted.

“Crowley,” he said, quietly, a bit of a gleam in his eyes. “I believe that's Benoit Blanc. My word!”

“Benwauh what?”

Aziraphale tutted. “One of the last gentleman sleuths,” he said, like it was obvious.

Crowley laughed. “Did you want to go say hello?” he asked.

Aziraphale shook his head. “Oh, no,” he said, a tad bit awkwardly. He may as well have jumped up and down shouting 'yes – that is exactly what I want to do.' “I wouldn't want to interrupt them. Besides, I might be wrong.”

Crowley tipped his head to the side, considering the other man-shaped being. He knew that look. “You have a bit of crush on him, don't you.”

“No,” Aziraphale sniffed; but two small patches of colour, appearing at the top of his cheekbones, told the truth. “I simply admire his work, that's all.”

“Ha!” Crowley said it loud enough that for a moment he was worried he was overheard; luckily, no one stopped and stared in their direction. The waitress was busy chatting away with Marta and, supposedly, Benwhatever Blanc. “You admired Oscar Wilde's work too. You've got a crush.”

“Crowley-”

“No, no, s'cute, angel,” Crowley said, grinning. “Come on, you have to go say hi.”

Aziraphale sighed. “Maybe when we're done here,” he said, nibbling on a piece of the toast that came with his food.

Crowley looked across the restaurant to see the waitress smiling at him and mouthing 'another?'. He raised his empty beer bottle and nodded.

“I think we might have to find a hotel here after all,” Aziraphale mused, staring out at the snow. “Is it usually this heavy?” he asked the waitress, as she set Crowley's beer down on the table.

“Hmm,” she stared pensively out of the window. “Not normally, but this isn't rare. Driving is tricky in this weather.”

“So do you know those people over there?” Crowley asked, leaning back in his chair and taking a sip of his beer. It was tart, with a breath of orange. He rarely _enjoyed_ beer, but this was changing things.

She glanced over her shoulder, then smiled. “I know Marta,” she said. “She's kind of a big deal over here. Really nice, though. She's become a bit of a regular the past few months.”

“And the gentleman?”

“Some kind of private eye,” she replied. “Helped her with her inheritance.”

“So if we went over and said hello, would they be cool about it?” Crowley asked. Aziraphale gave him an expression made up of two emotions that had no business being portrayed together: exasperation, and a pout.

The waitress just laughed. “Well, probably, yeah.”

When she left, having written down an order for dessert (chocolate lava cake, one of the famous cupcakes Aziraphale had read about, and coffee) Crowley nudged the angel with the toe of his pointy black boot. “Go on, then,” he said, smiling. “Just go say hello. I'll stay here.”

Aziraphale sighed long and loud, but he was obviously pleased by Crowley's shooing him along – certainly, if he hadn't, Aziraphale would have talked himself into doing nothing. So he got up and went over, rather politely introducing himself, while Crowley smiled into his beer and pretended to be very engrossed in the fireplace.

When Aziraphale came back, looking incredibly pleased, Crowley didn't say anything. He was, however, startled when the angel, before sitting down, stopped to kiss Crowley's cheek.

Marta and Benoit Blanc gathered themselves to leave before Crowley and Aziraphale. Part of that was they passed on ordering anything more than entrees, but mostly it had to do with the fact that Aziraphale always ate so very _slowly,_ savouring everything. Which was fine – Crowley spent the time looking up nearby hotels on his phone, and cancelling the reservation they had made at a place several hour's drive away. From the rate they were going, they had no way of making it there in time, so they ought to make different arrangements. The museum Aziraphale wanted to visit wouldn't take very long, at least – from what Crowley could see it was a few rooms attached to a tourism centre, not much more than that.

When they stepped back outside (Aziraphale holding a box of cupcakes they had ordered to go, for later) he was surprised to see Blanc and his young friend standing in the entryway, out of the snow. “Oh, sorry!” Marta exclaimed, seeing she was blocking the exit.

“What's up?” Crowley asked, trying to fix his collar, before Aziraphale reached out and wordlessly did it himself, smoothing down the lapels when he was done.

“Car trouble,” Blanc said, with a laugh, as if he really couldn't believe it. Marta scowled playfully at him. “We just called a cab.”

Aziraphale smiled. “Well!” he exclaimed. “Anthony is quite the mechanic! Perhaps he could take a look?”

Crowley shot him a look, raising his eyebrows, but he knew better than to say anything otherwise.

“Oh,” Marta said. “I'm pretty sure it's just a dead battery.”

“Well, maybe we could get a jump,” Blanc suggested.

Aziraphale kept smiling, happy to be helpful, even though Crowley was relatively sure he had no idea what Blanc was even talking about, let alone the existence of jumper cables, but that didn't matter. They had been roped in. “Let me take a look, first,” he offered.

Outside the snow was still coming down, but it had lessened. Their rental was covered; beside it was Marta's, with most of the snow brushed off messily. Marta slogged through the snow, opening up the driver's side door to pop the hood, while Aziraphale kept Blanc in the entry of the restaurant, in conversation, to make sure he wouldn't notice anything un-scientific happening.

Not minding that he was putting his very expensive gloves inside the very dirty inner workings of a car in winter, Crowley pretended to search around a bit before peeking his head around to Marta, standing with her elbow on the hood of the car and waiting for his pronouncements. “Give it a try,” he suggested.

As the engine turned over and Marta shouted happily, Blanc and Aziraphale poked their heads out. “There, see,” Aziraphale said, indulgently. “All fixed.”

“I'll cancel the cab, then,” Marta said.

“So what was the problem?” Blanc asked.

“Er,” Crowley said. It _was_ the battery, but thankfully Aziraphale swooped in.

“We better go,” he said, turning his face upward. Snowflakes kissed his cheeks. “It's really coming down.”

“Off to your hotel?” Marta asked.

It made sense, Crowley supposed, that if he and Aziraphale had heard snatches of the other couple's conversation, then they would have overheard some of theirs. “We haven't picked one yet,” he said. “Do you have any suggestions?”

Marta and Blanc shared a glance; only for a second, but it was gone a moment later, and she was nodding. “There's a really nice one nearby,” she said. “I'll give you the address. So you're not leaving town yet?”

“Not with this snow,” Crowley said, and scowled up at the sky. “Is it always like this?”

“No,” Marta said, while Blanc said, “ _augh_ , constantly.”

“I think it's lovely,” Aziraphale said, and Marta beamed at him.

“Well, if you're around then you should come over for dinner later,” she insisted, smiling wide. “Please! You're here all the way from England, you need some home cooking, right? My sister is here on holiday and my mother is cooking. Please, it will be so nice to have more guests.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, looking as taken-aback as Crowley felt. “We...”

“We wouldn't want to impose,” Crowley said.

“ _Non_ sense,” Blanc said. “Grace's cooking is not to be missed, and actually if we tell her we invited others and they turned her down, well, that will just insult her.”

“Ben!” Marta said. “Don't guilt trip people!”

“I said what I said.”

“You're terrible.” She rolled her eyes, then smiled at the two of them. “Come, please? As thank you for fixing my car.”

“You need a new car, Marta.”

“Benny, shut up.”

“We'll come,” Crowley decided for the both of them.

“Perfect!” she said. “Give us your number. Have you got a number here? Oh, yes,” she said, as Blanc produced a business card and handed it to Aziraphale, “there you go. And we will text you the name of the hotel, too. Okay?”

And just like that, Marta and Blanc were getting in the car. “And, uh, enjoy the museum!” Blanc added, cheerfully, before closing the door.

“They overheard that, huh,” Crowley said, dryly, while Aziraphale inspected the business card with pleasure.

“Oh, I'm sure it's a common enough destination here,” he said. “Harlan Thrombey was a _very_ accomplished mystery writer.”

“Well, we better get going before they close,” Crowley said.

But before getting into the car they stopped, there in the snow, to kiss. Aziraphale's mouth was soft, warm, flavoured with chocolate and cream. They pressed so close they forgot themselves for a moment, crushing the box of cupcakes but not, luckily, mangling the precious contents inside.

Crowley was beginning to like New England.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Aziraphale has a crush on Benoit Blanc; no, he does not keep up with current events, perhaps he should ;)


End file.
